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This is the last chapter with a case based on the cannon works, feel free to guess which one! ^_^
Trigger Warning: This is a murder case.
Chapter 13: Dangerous Affection
"That answer, Mr. Holmes, is no."
Rene Williams was a beautiful you woman of twenty three years with gray eyes and soft blond hair that fell to her shoulders. She was a small, thin woman with delicate features, but her tone bespoke a will of iron, belying the fragile image she presented.
"Miss. Williams," Sherlock tried again, his voice strained with irritation. "Please be reasonable. You can't ignore the evidence." It had taken a great deal of effort for John to convince Sherlock to try to be calm and gentle with Miss. Williams. John suspected the poor woman felt cornered and harassed enough as was. Sherlock had put forth a very charming visage at first, but had been met with only steely contempt, which quickly wore away at his patience.
"What evidence, Mr. Holmes?" Miss. Williams retorted, lifting her chin defiantly. "I have seen only vicious rumors and slander directed at a respectable man who has suffered greatly."
"He has had three dead wives before you!" Sherlock roared, surging to his feet as his control finally snapped. "Are you so eager to be the fourth?!"
Miss. Williams rose to her feet as well, undeterred from her purpose. "Three tragic accidents!" she yelled back. Despite her small stature her voice resounded powerfully around the room. "Charles has suffered time and time again, each time being thrown into the suspicion of the court, and each time the court could find no real evidence with which to make their case. And somehow, after all of this, he found it in his heart to love again! He warned me it would be a difficult road before us, and I promised him I would not be shaken, especially not with trifling theories that won't stand up in court!"
Sherlock threw his hands into the air and began to pace erratically around the room. "Would evidence resulting in a conviction convince you Miss. Williams?" Sherlock turned to glower at her. "Somehow I doubt even a full confession from Mr. McAndrew himself would move you to reason!"
Miss. Williams returned Sherlock's glower, but was able to reply with a cool, aloof tone. "Of course I would believe if Charles told me, I trust him." The silence that followed was so thick and menacing that John was certain he'd have to break up a fist fight.
At length Sherlock drew himself up to his full height and moved to stand directly in front of Miss. Williams. "I will find you your proof then." Sherlock arched a sardonic eyebrow. "I do hope I can manage to find enough to convince you before your body becomes exhibit A."
There was another long moment of mutual glowering before Sherlock whirled around and strode out of the room. John stood, nodded at Miss. Williams and murmured, "Thank you for meeting with us."
She glanced at the ex-army doctor and gave the barest of nods in return. For the most part, John had been a spectator during this meeting, and so had not incurred her wrath directly.
John grabbed his coat and pulled it on as he hurried after the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock had been angry enough that John worried about having to pay his own cab fare home, then pay Sherlock's to assuage an angry cabbie he would most certainly leave for John to deal with. Luckily Sherlock had been too busy angrily stalking up and down the sidewalk to summon a cab.
When he spotted John, Sherlock stalked up to his blogger and growled, "Love is the single most prevalent motivator for every murder case I've ever solved."
The ex-army doctor could almost feel the tension radiating off of his friend. Sherlock hated losing a case, and, John quietly suspected he was also galled by the idea of the young woman they had just met falling prey to the menace that was Charles McAndrew.
Sherlock's looming presence and menacing snarl made a fearsome visage, but John wasn't the slightest bit intimidated. "Don't be an idiot."
The piercing gaze of the world's only consulting detective narrowed and his voice became ominously quiet. "Pardon?"
John smirked, unapologetic, "Don't be discouraged. I have it on good authority that most people are idiots."
Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he spit out whatever vicious comment he'd concocted, John stepped forward and spoke again, his face serious. "What I did for my sister is love, Sherlock. My actions showed it. This," John gestured wildly behind him, indicating the building and the woman they had just left, "isn't love. It's manipulation and blind devotion." John squared his shoulders, his gaze never wavering. "Now, it's our job to disillusion Miss. Williams. I'm sure you have a morally dubious plan in that brilliant mind of yours; let's get to it."
Sherlock's expression changed, looking both calculating and mildly confused. "And you intend to follow me without argument? No high-handed objections?"
John shook his head firmly. "Not this time, Sherlock."
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at his blogger. "Blind devotion?" he drawled, the hint of a sarcastic smile on his lips."
A short bark of laughter escaped John's throat before he replied, "Hardly. You're a high-strung genius with a fascination for picking people apart. Given your line of work you're constantly mired in the darker sides of humanity. You revel in loudly and publically illustrating the follies of others, and while you'll never turn down a challenge, I've never seen you be cruel for the sake of taking enjoyment from other people's pain. Given your assertion that you're any type of sociopath is unfounded, and nothing I've seen or been able to think of has ever pulled you away from a case, I've got nothing to fear from you directly."
Sherlock blinked a few times, taken aback by John's smug and frank analysis. He was wrong on a few key points, naturally, but on the point of his safety from Sherlock...
The world's only consulting detective reached forward and yanked John forcefully into an alcove that served as the front entrance of a local shop. John came willingly, only mildly surprised. The ex-army doctor pressed himself close, correctly assuming that Sherlock had meant to hide them from view. "Mr. McAndrew is arriving?" John asked, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's ear. Sherlock nodded, ignoring the goose bumps spreading down his neck and along his spine.
They stayed locked together, pressed against a side window display before Sherlock abruptly pulled them back out into the street and raised his arm for a cab. John grimaced in mild irritation when a cab materialized on the curb not an instant later. He couldn't decide if it was Sherlock's magnetic presence, or if he had some sort of deal with London's cab service... Maybe this instant service was a form of gratitude as a result of some past case Sherlock had solved for them...?
"John!" Sherlock's sharp, stern reprimand jolted the ex-army doctor out of his reverie.
"Right, sorry. I'm listening. Where are we headed?"
Sherlock leaned forward so that he could speak softly, without risk of the cabbie overhearing him. He made it look as thought he'd leaned forward to kiss John or to whisper romantic nonsense at him, to further ensure that the driver, who was a prim, reserved woman, would pay them no mind. "We're going to examine Mr. McAndrew's home. Miss. William's father provided us with the address during his visit, remember?"
John nodded as he recalled Mr. Williams' visit. He had burst into their flat at 3:00am the previous night, completely undeterred by Mrs. Hudson's threats to call the police. By the time John had stumbled into the living room, Sherlock had seated Mr. Williams on the sofa against the far wall and was ushering Mrs. Hudson out.
Mr. Williams had proceeded to inform them that he believed his daughter was in danger of losing her life. Against his wishes, she'd become engaged to Mr. Charles McAndrew, a man who's last three wives met their untimely ends under highly suspicious circumstances. During their courtship Mr. McAndrew had convinced Miss. Williams that he was a man unjustly blamed for the tragic 'accidents' which had befallen his former wives. Mr. Williams explained that he'd been unable to dissuade his daughter, and she had informed him that evening that she would marry Mr. McAndrew in three days. Mr. Williams reported he had resolved instantly to seek Sherlock's help in the middle of the night so that his daughter would not know at first, and would be unprepared for any initial interview which may follow.
The words of the desperate man still rang in John's ears. "Please Mr. Holmes, you've got to help save my daughter!"
Sherlock had agreed to take on the case, mostly because of the three dead wives attached to Mr. McAndrew. He and John had reviewed all the information about Mr. McAndrew that Mr. Williams had brought with him, and agreed to speak with his daughter at 10:00am.
John had been surprised and grateful that Sherlock had agreed to try to dissuade Miss. Williams from marrying Mr. McAndrew. Part of him had wondered if Sherlock had agreed to speak with her to get collateral information, or if he truly had wanted to dissuade her. Probably it was both, and ultimately, John decided, it wasn't worth clarifying.
The cab came to an abrupt halt outside of Mr. McAndrew's town house. Sherlock exited quickly and John reflexively reached for his wallet to pay the fair. He still wasn't happy about being stuck with the bill, but he recognized it was a lost cause.
By the time John joined Sherlock on the stoop, the world's only consulting detective had just managed to pick the lock. Sherlock pocketed the pins he'd used with a smug smile and slipped inside. John smiled despite himself, and shook his head as he followed. "You made that look just like you were turning a key," he commented as they slipped down a narrow hallway.
Sherlock turned his smug expression on John. "One never knows when little old ladies might be neighbors of a suspect. They're better than any security system I've ever seen."
They passed a small but well organized kitchen, and slipped into what appeared to be a study or a home office. "Do we know what we're looking for?" John asked, closing the door behind them to promote the illusion of security.
"Mementos," Sherlock replied, already rifling through one of Mr. McAndrew's book cases. "Every serial killer keeps some kind of memento from their kills. They instill a sense of pride. Given his extensive book collection in this room alone, and the utter lack of evidence the Yard has been able to find against him, it may only be a written record, but that's as good as a confession."
John nodded and went to work on the book shelf on the opposite side of the room, mentally reviewing the cause of death for Mr. McAndrew's first three wives as he did so. He would never measure up to Sherlock, but he'd like not to be completely lost when the world's only consulting detective began to present his findings.
The first wife, Jessica Reddington before she married, had perished in a fire that had destroyed the couple's home. Mr. McAndrew had been away at a business meeting at the time, and the subsequent investigation found no signs of arson.
The second wife, Tara Parker had suffered a violent and instantly fatal fall while out hiking with her husband. They had not been alone on the foot paths, and witness reported hearing Mr. McAndrew's anguished cries as he tried desperately to reach the prone body of his wife. They Yard could find no evidence of any foul play, even though the investigation had continued weeks after her death.
The third wife, Carol Kendrick had officially been ruled a suicide. She had been found slumped over and drowned in the tub by Mr. McAndrew after his return from work one evening. He had reported to the yard that they'd shared breakfast and tea together in the morning, and he'd left for work as usual, with no indication that anything was amiss. Carol had been prescribed strong sedative hypnotics to help combat persistent and severe Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which had resulted in almost daily panic attacks. The lab had found an excessively high amount of this medication in her blood stream, which had likely resulted in intense drowsiness, and subsequent drowning
They searched every book in the study, the living room, and the bedroom to no result, so Sherlock returned to the study to hack Mr. McAndrew's computer. "I would have thought any record he kept would be hand written," Sherlock mused, booting up the expensive computer. "He's an old-fashioned sort of person, and hand-written things tend to add to sentiment, for those who are so disposed to such nonsense."
The computer was password protected, but that didn't slow Sherlock down for a second. John tried to let him concentrate, but he couldn't quite contain his curiosity. "How did you guess his password so quickly?"
Sherlock answered without once looking away from the computer or slowing his typing speed. "Mr. McAndrew owns every work ever published by Robert Frost and a very old, well-kept version of the Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri. We already know he likes to read. One of Robert Frost's most popular poems is 'Fire and Ice' which speaks about the end of the world, and is said to be a tribute to the Divine Comedy, referencing the nine layers of hell recounted in Dante's Inferno. A passionate, old-fashioned serial killer, it wasn't hard to guess."
"What was it?" John asked after a protracted silence. As much as Sherlock loved to show off he tended to trail off at inconvenient places once he felt something should be obvious.
"Fire." Sherlock replied, still rapidly opening and closing files.
"Ah, naturally," John murmured shaking his head at himself and his crazy flatmate. He decided to make himself at least somewhat useful and keep guard by the study windows. They faced the street and offered a decent view of the front door of the townhouse. The ex-army doctor positioned himself so that the curtains on the windows would obscure him from view, but not block his view of the front door, and watched.
John had experience standing watch, and focused on mentally listing the number of men that passed so that he would maintain good attention, and the one specific man he was looking for would not likely escape his notice. It was an easy routine to fall into, lulled by the clicking of the keyboard as Sherlock's fingers danced across it.
"Sherlock." John's voice was quiet, and the tone clipped. It was just enough of a warning to pierce the concentration of the world's only consulting detective.
"Too soon," Sherlock murmured back, fingers still moving rapidly.
A hand gripped his elbow like a steel band, pulling upwards. "Now, Sherlock, or I am dragging you out the window." Sherlock let out a short, rough exclamation that sounded like a growl, and shut down the computer. Keys rattled in the lock and John stiffened. "Window?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Not yet, too soon and he'll see us coming out."
As the door opened Sherlock lifted the window from its sill and ushered John out. The ex-army doctor rolled and crouched, joined only seconds later by his flatmate. John glanced up, his breathing slightly elevated from the adrenaline, and found that Sherlock had managed to close the window being him.
"That was close," he whispered, trying and failing not to grin as he looked back at Sherlock.
The world's only consulting detective arched an eyebrow and stared at him until John frowned and asked, "What?"
"Why do you insist on high-handed moral protests when you enjoy danger this much?" Sherlock muttered with frustrated agitation.
John let out a disbelieving huff and pointed an accusatory finger at Sherlock. "You enjoy it too."
"I never said that I didn't," Sherlock retorted, slinking out from underneath the window so that he could stand.
John stood as well, gratefully accepting Sherlock's offered hand. They'd made it all of half a block before the ex-army doctor thought to ask, "Wait, does this mean that you're actually admitting that you don't know something?"
Sherlock began to walk faster. "Hurry or we'll miss the cab."
"That doesn't answer my question," John insisted, feeling both giddy and smug. Although he pestered and needled Sherlock all the way back to Baker Street, he never did get an answer.
"Fuck!" The sound of something shattering on the wall brought John out from the kitchen. He'd just been washing up from dinner, not that he'd convinced Sherlock to have any, and he still had the dishtowel in his hands.
"Sherlock?" he asked," eyeing the wreck of a phone at his flatmate's feet.
"He knows we were there," Sherlock growled, throwing himself dramatically onto the sofa.
"How?" John asked, stepping into the room.
Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe I missed something, left evidence that we were there. He did murder three women without getting caught, that does take some amount of intelligence."
"He might be clever," John agreed, "But since when do you ever miss anything?"
Sherlock shrugged, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the too bright light of the living room. "I'm not infallible."
This afternoon John most certainly would have gloated at such an admission, and made a show about how he needed to mark the calendar, but now the gray pallor of Sherlock's skin had him worried. The good doctor crept across their floor and leaned over the world's only consulting detective. John pressed his hand against Sherlock's arm, frowned, and slid his hand up over Sherlock's shoulder and along his neck, just under the jaw, feeling his swollen lymph nodes.
"Sherlock," John spoke quietly, but his tone conveyed a seriousness that thickened the atmosphere in the room.
Sherlock shifted, pulling his arm down, and blinking up at John as the ex-army doctor's hand slid over his cheek and came to rest on his forehead.
"How long have you had a fever?" John's steady blue gaze held him, and Sherlock knew he would not be brushed off.
"Three days. I've monitored myself every four hours, it has held steady at 102 degrees Fahrenheit."
John's fingers twitched as he drew his hand away from his flatmate's forehead and started pacing. "Damnit, Sherlock, you just had a fever last week! Why haven't you been to a doctor?!"
A crooked grin settled on Sherlock's face. "I see a doctor every day."
John's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I meant for treatment, Sherlock. You can't just ignore this!"
"Of course I can," Sherlock insisted, throwing his arm back over his eyes. His head had started pounding, and he knew from experience that the pressure would only get worse.
John swore and grumbled under his breath, already heading for the loo to fetch some over the counter fever reducer/pain killer.
"You can't fix this, John." The words sounded quiet, even to his own ears, but Sherlock still heard a tell-tale squeak from the floors when John stopped mid-step.
"What?"
"You can't fix this," Sherlock repeated, trying to sound a little more forceful. "Don't try."
John's weight swiveled on his feet, and he returned to the sofa. Sherlock felt a warm weight press into his side as the good doctor settled on the edge of the couch. "What, exactly do you mean, Sherlock?" The world's only consulting detective grumbled under his breath, then felt John's fingers at his wrist. "Look at me."
Sherlock resettled his arm on his chest, and John's fingers settled on the pulse point, measuring his heart rate. John had the same expression on his face that he had when he was talking about his sister...but of course that shouldn't be surprising. He was a doctor. He liked to fix things. He liked to play God...they weren't so dissimilar in that sense.
"This is something chronic?" John pressed. "No cure, you're certain?"
All the sassy comments Sherlock could think of died on his lips. He swallowed as John's steady blue gaze held his once again. For such a soft hearted doctor, he went right to the point... "Yes, absolutely. Modern medicine and my own experiments can do nothing to alleviate my situation." Sherlock's lips quirked in a fleeting smile. "It's a lifelong condition."
"What condition?" John pressed.
Sherlock shrugged, then winced and wished he hadn't. When did his muscles get so sore? "Sherlock's condition, I suppose."
John blinked a few times then shook his head. "Are you saying it's never been seen before?"
"The symptoms are nothing new to medicine, but I don't think they've ever presented in exactly this manner or course. I assure you, however, I am not contagious."
"I think I would've noticed that by now, Sherlock, even without my medical degree."
"This is a slow acting...illness, so I doubt you would have noticed by now even if it was contagious." Sherlock sighed, shifting his arm to loosen John's sudden death grip on it. John relented and rested his fingers lightly on Sherlock's forearm. His fingers trembled as he processed the news.
Sherlock swallowed again turning his head away from the emotions swirling in John's eyes. It was useless to pity him. What was the point? He had been a dead man from the moment Miss. Hooper's needle had first pierced his skin. He could never be a bleeding heart romantic, it just wasn't in him. But he had enough time to untangle this last big web, and that would be a fitting end...
"Can your liver tolerate some medicine?"
Sherlock nodded and felt John's warmth leave him. He counted the good doctor's steps to the bathroom. He dawdled in their long enough to call the Thai place down the street and order some Tom Yum Goong. When John returned he dimmed the lights to a tolerable level before ordering Sherlock to sit up.
Sherlock took the medicine without complaint and made room for John to sit beside him on the sofa.
"Is there any program on the telly you can watch without being obnoxious?"
Sherlock turned to study his flatmate who was staring resolutely at the blank screen in front of him. John was upset and that puzzled him. The good doctor had said and demonstrated that he cared for him, but he had no good reason to. Sherlock knew he wasn't very likable, things were easier that way...
"I believe you could tolerate my commentary on Black Adder, season 2."
John glanced over at him, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Are you telling me you can't stop yourself from picking everything to pieces?"
Sherlock fixed him with a pointed look. "It's a satire, John, a comedy. They don't even take themselves seriously." He watched his blogger chuckle softly, shake his head, then turn his attention back to the telly.
"Fair enough," John replied, flipping through the channels to see what he could find. There was a Black Adder marathon on channel 30. John didn't need to ask to confirm that Sherlock had already known that. He'd probably memorized the schedule. One never knew when a would-be criminal would use the wrong programming schedule as an alibi.
By the time the Thai Food arrived, Sherlock was yelling advice and commentary at the screen and John was struggling not to laugh. Sherlock did not need the encouragement... even if it was funny.
The ex-army doctor detoured to the kitchen, and poured the soup into a clean bowl. He set the bowl on a small tray alongside a glass of water and a spoon. Moving efficiently and quietly, John walked into the living room and set the tray he had prepared on the coffee stable.
"Eat." It was a quiet, caring command, but it was still a command.
Sherlock, who had never liked being told what to do, made a face.
John turned to face him, his expression serious. "I'll spoon feed you if you make me."
The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched. "I'd like to see you try."
John chuckled again. "Somehow I think all we would accomplish is making a brilliant spectacle of ourselves."
Sherlock nodded his agreement, and set the bowl of soup on his lap. It was hot, which helped soothe his throat, and spicy enough to help clear his sinuses... It had been a bit too long since he'd last eaten. It was good. John sat beside him, laughing reluctantly at the ongoing commentary.
He finished the soup and the water, then settled back into the sofa with a small sigh. He felt better. Not healed, that was impossible, but this was the first time in a long while that he'd felt...comfortable... It made no sense tracking the progression of his illness any longer, all his mental energy needed to be focused on new cases, and any ways in which they may relate to his ultimate case. He was certain the Dwight murder had more clues for him...
His eyes flickered over and he observed John's profile. He was upset, obviously, but... Sherlock let out another long sigh and closed his eyes. This was also the first time, maybe the first time ever that it hadn't felt like someone was having their emotions at him. ...It was nice...
John slipped his arms around the warm body sprawled out against him and smiled. He nuzzled his face into his companion's shoulder and yawned, breathing in their sent. He jolted slightly when he recognized Sherlock's cologne, and the night before came rushing back to him.
Sherlock was sick... John hated that news. He was a doctor, he cared, so of course he wouldn't want that for anyone. As much as Sherlock drove him crazy...John didn't hate him. He wanted him to be happy.
John forced himself to loosen his grip and let his arms fall naturally to Sherlock's waist. The world's only consulting detective had nodded off fairly quickly after he'd finished the soup, and the ex-army doctor had been glad to see it. Sherlock needed his rest. John had enjoyed Sherlock's silent company, and the satisfaction that he was finally getting what he needed, before drifting off himself. John had woken up in the middle of the night, disturbed by the continual low hum of the infomercial now running on the telly. He found he'd slumped over in his sleep so that he was almost horizontal, and that Sherlock was sprawled on top of him. Smiling softly to himself John had reached over and grasped the remote, plunging the room into silence and darkness.
John had honestly meant to get Sherlock to bed, but he didn't want to wake him. His fever had broken and he'd seemed chilled; it had only been natural to pull a blanket over the both of them. The ex-army doctor tried to be logical, and he'd listed all sorts of reasons why it was a bad idea, before ultimately letting Sherlock use him as a bed anyway.
Sherlock's sleeping face was flushed with the healthy color of someone at rest; and the good doctor was glad to see his fever hadn't returned. John lifted his hand to Sherlock's wrist, taking his pulse, satisfied to find it steady and strong. He wasn't sure how long he lay like that, but his guilty conscience insisted that it had to be over an hour. Still, it was an event worth committing to memory. Sherlock was almost never so still...
John swallowed when he remembered last night's revelations. Sherlock was sick with something he would never be rid of. Somehow, though Lord knew how, they'd become friends. John didn't have many friends, and he was loath to lose any of them. The world had too many ways to hurt, and John was sick to death with all of the people he cared about having some...lifelong condition... John fervently hoped that Sherlock was wrong about his illness. It had been known to happen, after all, from time to time.
The transition from slack, lolling muscles, to coiling activity was so rapid that John nearly jumped off the sofa in surprise. "Sherlock!" He cried, trying, and mostly failing, to hold down his suddenly flailing flatmate. "What's wrong?!"
"Fire!" Sherlock gasped, his eyes still roving around the room, locked on whatever images his dreams had brought him. "Fire, of course, I should have guessed yesterday!" He scrambled up and off of John already reaching for his coat before John's voice finally reached him.
"Sherlock!" The world's only consulting detective paused, his coat half shrugged onto his shoulders and blinked owlishly at John. "Where are we going?" John asked, rising and reaching for his own coat.
The grin that claimed Sherlock's face was infectious, and John was smiling back before he even knew why.
"The burnt out house where the first murder took place. Mr. McAndrew never rebuilt it. 'Too many painful memories,' or some such nonsense. With every subsequent murder it would be more and more of a liability to keep any mementos close at hand. Plus preserving the first crime scene has a sense of nostalgia about it that seems appropriate for a serial killer.
John shook his head at himself and at the way Sherlock had pulled everything together so neatly. "Brilliant. I knew you'd figure it out."
Sherlock flushed with warmth, from the adrenaline, naturally, nothing else.
They shared a look bubbling with excitement before they rushed down the stairs like children on holiday, nearly tumbling one after the other in their eagerness to chase down this new clue.
Living in England for the majority of his life, John was more than familiar with ruins. Abandoned, crumbling buildings always made an impression, and the burnt out husk of the former McAndrew house was especially eerie. It was like the remains of the house, the trees that grew around it, the very earth remembered and mourned the tragic death of an innocent woman.
"Stop waxing poetic, John, we still need to find those mementos."
John frowned and looked over at his flatmate who was elbow deep in soot and other debris. He hadn't even looked up when before he'd scolded John. "I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it," Sherlock replied, turning a deeply charred piece of wood over in his hands. "There is nothing unique about this crime scene, as far as arson scenes go; you're putting too much meaning into things."
John rolled his eyes and snorted with derision. "Sorry, we simple minded humans are sentimental from time to time."
Sherlock made a small grunt to show that he'd heard his blogger. "And damned tedious about it, too."
The ex army doctor shook his head and refocused, trying to look at the scene in front of him with new eyes. "You said that Mr. McAndrew has been here?"
"I said he may have been here. The ground is too trodden over by animal paths, and human foot prints. Probably some teenagers use this wreckage for drunken revelry."
"I hardly think they call it revelry, Sherlock," John retorted, slowly circling the edge of what was once a room. There really wasn't much left of the place, and John was at a loss to say if that was because of the fire, or the years and damage that had come afterwards. Where was there to even look? Sherlock was meticulously scanning the remaining walls, confirming his initial suspicions that nothing was buried here. The only thing that reached above their heads was the crumbling fireplace chimney.
John ran a sooty hand through his hair and took a step back, trying to scan as much of the scene in front of him as he could at once. "Let's review what we know. Mr. McAndrew is an intelligent, sentimental serial killer."
Sherlock didn't comment, so John assumed he hadn't erred in his summations. He continued. "His methods for killing vary every time, ergo he's not attached to a certain ritualized way of doing things."
"His 'ritual' is to court his victims, to woo them, to win their hearts and, just when they've given him everything, he ends it." Sherlock made a point of looking over his shoulder at John as he spoke, underlying the disastrous love Mr. McAndrew's wives had held for him.
John swallowed hard and forced himself not to look away. Sherlock wasn't wrong. Love could be more dangerous than a bullet through the heart, John had seen it happen. He'd also seen love make a difference when no other medicine could. Deliverance or demise depended on the hearts and minds of those involved.
All the past Mrs. McAndrew's had loved their husband, and paid the ultimate price for it. The severity of such a betrayal, not once, but three times almost made John angry enough to take the matter into his own hands...almost. If there was going to be true justice, it had to come full circle; Miss. Williams must be disillusioned.
"Do you think the first crime was a crime of passion, or planned?" John asked, struggling to keep his focus.
"Fire is certainly dramatic," Sherlock agreed, "But he did a good enough job that it looked like an accident, and he didn't even use the fireplace..." Sherlock's voice trailed off and his gaze narrowed. "Idiot!" he hissed, stalking over to the largely intact chimney.
"What?" John asked, jumping out of the way as Sherlock brushed past him.
"The fireplace is the place to start a fire, particularly if you don't want to be blamed for arson," Sherlock replied, circling the structure like a bird of prey about to move in for the kill. "Think about it, John. Who would think twice about someone mismanaging a fireplace? It happens all the time. Throw in a story about an awful row just before the business trip and how your wife drank when she was upset, and no one would question it. Poor distraught, drunk woman, it's a wonder she didn't burn down the whole neighborhood."
"But Mr. McAndrew didn't use the fireplace as a starting point for the fire," John murmured, beginning to catch on. "They ruled it was faulty wiring, didn't they?
Sherlock nodded. "In the second story bedroom, yes. He probably set it up before he left so that it would happen over a few days, giving him all the time he needed to be seen at his business conference. Air tight alibi."
"Actually, when you put it that way, it sounds pretty damn suspicious," John replied.
Sherlock's lips quirked up in a satisfied grin as he knelt down and reached up into the opening of the chimney. His questing fingers found the rusted lever for the flue and grasped it tightly. His arm and shoulder muscles strained violently for a few moments before the flue opened with a painful sounding creak, and a light package fell into his waiting hands.
The world's only consulting detective withdrew his prize and delicately examined it. It appeared to be a book with scraps of mementos stuffed between its pages, carefully wrapped in a clear plastic bag. He glanced over his shoulder and shared a meaningful look with his blogger then they shifted and moved as one out of the ruined house.
Mr. Williams shot Sherlock and John more than a few curious looks when they knocked on his door, still smeared with soot and dirt from their search, but when they asked to see his daughter he ushered them inside without another word.
Miss. Williams, who had evidently been reading on the sofa, started when her father ushered the ex-army doctor and the world's only consulting detective into their living room. John sat as he was bade, trying to be mindful of the grime that covered him. Sherlock on the other hand, strode in confidently and sat down with such force that he sent small black particles flying out from his clothes, across the carpet and the upholstery
Miss. William's eyes were wide, taking in the spectacle before her as she delicately placed her book on a side table, and sat up a little straighter to meet her visitors. She swallowed, licked her lips, and brought her gaze up to meet Sherlock's. "Mr. Holmes," she began, her voice somewhat strained. "Please tell me you haven't been excavating...bodies..." The last word came out as a disbelieving whisper."
Sherlock snorted derisively, and shook his head. "Not much point in that, is there? Putting aside the fact that the first Mrs. McAndrew burned to ashes, and the deterioration which would occur to the other two bodies because of the length of time they have been decomposing, you have no practical knowledge of autopsies and anything I would try to teach you would naturally be suspect in your eyes."
Miss. Williams glanced sidelong at her father, who remained standing anxiously in the doorway. "It would also be a crime," she replied uncertainly, "since I know that Charles would never give you permission." She swallowed again and pressed on, "I have heard of your reputation, and I would not doubt you capable of ignoring all respectable protocols." Her voice grew firmer, and her back straighter with each word and her righteous indignation returned.
John sputtered an irrepressible laugh. "That's all true, I'm afraid," he said, trying to collect himself. "He's made Detective Inspector Lestrade chase him all over London before. His idea of calling for police backup is to trigger silent alarms during a search for evidence." John shrugged. "Well, that or pick pocketing police identification so that they'll come after him."
Miss. William's eyes grew wide again, and John offered her a friendly smile. She was a bit off, center again, which was probably the best place for her to be right now; it made her more likely to believe what they had to offer.
Without prompting, Sherlock leaned forward, offering the small package he'd retrieved from his inside jacket pocket. Miss. Williams hesitantly accepted it, turning it over in her hands. "What is this?"
"We found it wedged inside the flue at the burned remains of Mr. McAndrew's former house," Sherlock explained, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. His eyes tracked Miss. William's movements avidly, waiting for the dawning horror he knew would come to her delicate features, if she had any sense that was.
Miss. Williams gently brushed soot and grit off of the plastic, fingers questing for an opening. "It doesn't look like you've opened it," She remarked, looking up as she fingered the plastic seal.
Sherlock shook his head. "I'm sure enough of what it is. You said only a confession would convince you, and this is as close to a written confession as you're going to get."
A delicate eyebrow raised defiantly towards her hairline. "You're that confident, are you?"
Sherlock nodded towards the packet still resting in her hands. "See for yourself, Miss. Williams."
She held his gaze for a long moment before tearing open the seal at last. Carefully, she withdrew the book and opened it. She scanned the pages and other contents pressed inside the pages, slowly at first, then faster as the color slowly drained from her face. When she stumbled across a lock of blond hair and a photo of a too white face lolling on pale shoulders she cried out in horror and despair. The book fell from her lap and her hands covered her face as sobs wracked her small frame. She shook her head violently from side to side, muttering, "No...no, no, no, no no, no, no, no, no.. No Charles, no!"
Sherlock stooped forward and plucked the book from where it lay on the floor, while John frowned in sympathy at the young women. He couldn't blame her for her reaction; all the hopes and dreams she'd held for her future were lost to her now...but she would have a future.
The world's only consulting detective nodded at the bereft figure before him, "Miss. Williams," he said by way of farewell. He turned a nodded similarly at her father, who had crossed the room to kneel beside his daughter and reach for her hands. She wailed and flailed in her hysteria, and would not return his consoling grasp.
Sherlock stole from the room, and with a small nod and softly spoken, "I'm sorry," John followed him. They were leaving a terrible scene behind them but the ex-army doctor knew better than most that sometimes one had to cause pain in order to heal a greater injury.
John caught sight of Sherlock's lanky frame bending into a cab, and rushed forward to catch him. "New Scotland Yard," they said together, once they were seated. Only John thought to add, "please." Lestrade could bring the final justice to this case, with the proof they had to offer him.
They turned and looked at each other in the dim light of the street lamps, for night had fallen during their brief interview with Miss. Williams. "Come here," John said, reaching out his arms towards Sherlock's face.
Sherlock looked dubiously at his blogger, but obeyed. "I'm fine, John," he insisted, deducing the ex-army doctor's intent. "I haven't been symptomatic all day." In truth he hadn't felt this well in weeks.
John's hands stole over his forehead, behind his neck, and under his jaw, feeling the natural, healthy temperature in his skin and lymph nodes that, while still swollen, no longer seemed to illicit pain when touched. "I'm fine," Sherlock repeated, his lips quirking upwards at his flatmate's foolishness.
John smiled back at him in the dark, and murmured, "Good."